


And Then We Go

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, First Time, Frottage, Injury, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5938282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've managed to survive some impossible odds, and despite all the injuries they can finally, maybe, acknowledge what's been left unspoken between them. (Coda fic for 2x06)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then We Go

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my computer since August of last year and I finally spruced it up and posted it here. This is what I get for deciding I wanted to try writing portamis as NOT an established relationship... and I wish I could have spent more time making it a slow burn and then making the sex more of a pay off rather than a quickie, but at this point I just wanted to be finished with the work... So you get what you get.
> 
> It is vaguely related to [this series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/300858) here, but it can be read alone since it doesn't follow some of the established background in the series itself. 
> 
> Anyway, rambles. Enjoy!

The aftermath of it all, of course, is pain. His shoulder throbs, agitated and swollen from use even after lodging it back into its joint. Aramis, too, is in pain. He’s seen him walking slowly, with a limp, blood dried on his cheeks and neck. 

It all still hurts –of course it does. 

Their walk back towards Porthos’ room is a slow one, but Porthos doesn’t mind taking his time – feels himself hovering, knows he’s hovering, knows that Aramis will tease when he realizes. But he also can’t stop – he’s never been able to stop with such matters when it comes to Aramis. 

(“We should probably see the surgeon, shouldn’t we?” Porthos asks as they get back to Paris and Aramis just grins at him, delirious and unexpectedly happy, and shakes his head with a quiet promise of, “I can take a look at your shoulder for you, Porthos.”) 

Porthos breathes out now, rubbing absently at his aching shoulder. The thud of pain falls all the way down to his bones, it seems – an ancient kind of ache, a heavy kind, but a certain kind: certain in their victory, at least. It is not the first time he’s been hurt. It will not be the last. That’s the nature of their life, after all. 

(It isn’t his shoulder he’s worried about. He’s suffered far worse. He’s lost blood and broken bones and been in hopeless, dire situations – and he always got out of it again. He’s a survivor. He knows how to survive. It isn’t his shoulder he’s worried about – it’s the limp in Aramis’ step. It’s the caked blood on Aramis’ face, the glitter of glass catching in his hair with the late afternoon light. He doesn’t say as much. Whenever Aramis smiles at him the way he is now, Porthos is very much unable to deny him anything. He knows the same is true of Aramis, as well.) 

Porthos spends the first hour after they get back to the garrison flat on his back in his bed, staring at the ceiling while Aramis hums to himself, working at the ties to Porthos’ shirt to slip it down off his shoulder so he can get a good look at the damage. Once he sees the swelling and the irritation to the limb, the humming fades and his smile dims. There’s an etching to his forehead, a concentration, a reminder – no matter how happy Aramis might be, he will always bow into Porthos when he sees him injured. 

Porthos lifts his free hand and picks at a shard of glass he can see in his hair, woven in there. Aramis glances from his shoulder to him, and his smile turns indulgent. “We’re focusing on you right now.” 

“And what happens when a piece falls out of your hair and into my eye?” Porthos shoots back, not unkindly, and smiles back at him. 

“Come. Up you get,” Aramis says gently, scoops his hand under Porthos’ back and helps him sit up. “Let me get a look at it properly.” 

Porthos sits up without much trouble, and uses his uninjured arm – and Aramis’ assistance – to work his shirtsleeves off over his head. The collar is wide enough to accommodate him, but it’s the shoulder they have to be careful with. Aramis’ hand skims over his arm, across his chest – touches at old, faded scars he helped reshape, helped stitch the skin back together – and then settles at his injured shoulder. It is swollen and irritated from the hasty treatment down in those chains – snapped back into place with that shout of pain. Aramis prods and Porthos flinches away with a hiss of pain and levels Aramis with a glare. 

“Sorry,” Aramis says with an offered smile, although the corners are tilted with his concern – he’s always far too concerned about Porthos. It used to annoy Porthos, really – once, long ago. Now he understands it for the care that it is, not the condescension. 

“It’s fine,” Porthos grunts, slowly tilts himself back towards Aramis’ hands. Aramis lays them there gently, slowly, fanning out his fingertips across fevered skin. Porthos sighs out. “Could have been worse, getting locked up like that.” 

“You need to stop getting captured so much,” Aramis chides with a sigh, purposefully light. When Porthos glances at him, he can see the darkness in his eyes the mere thought elicits. 

Porthos breathes out a small snort. “I’m just too popular. More than you, at least.” 

“You take that back,” Aramis says with a mock offense, trying to hold back his smile. “I am exceptionally popular.” 

“I’ll stop getting captured if you promise to stay away from windows from now on,” Porthos agrees after a moment, and finds that his words were not nearly as light and playful as he’d intended, but rather – worried. 

Aramis’ mouth quirks, and he glances down as he collects some bandages to help keep Porthos’ shoulder aligned. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry if I’d frightened you.” 

“You didn’t,” Porthos says. 

He knows Aramis won’t have remembered the way he’d screamed – had already fallen from the window before Porthos was shoving his way out of his captors’ arms in an attempt to get to him. Aramis wouldn’t have heard Porthos’ promise to murder those responsible for the slight. 

He turns his head, watches as Aramis starts wrapping his arm up. 

He corrects himself after that pause, “Well, maybe you did. But I knew you weren’t dead.” Aramis glances at him – and their faces are close. Porthos glances down and then back up again, suddenly feeling a little shy. He isn’t ashamed to admit it, but— “I know from experience not to think you’re dead until I see it for myself.” 

Aramis’ smile is cripplingly sweet, hemorrhaging kindness, splitting out in surprise – and his eyes are soft. “I wish I could hold that same confidence.” 

Porthos nods. He knows from experience, too, what Aramis looks like when he is separated from Porthos, when he fears the worst of what might happen to him – how quickly he moves to protect him when he needs it. They have been friends for a long time. They know each other and their fears better than anyone else. 

They fall into silence. Aramis finishes wrapping Porthos’ shoulder and then Porthos insists on getting a look at Aramis’ leg. Aramis chuckles but obeys, stripping down to his shirt and braies, rolling the fabric down so Porthos can get a look at the sore muscle – there’s no blood and no broken bones, at least, even if the skin is turning an ugly purple – and Porthos nods his head in satisfaction before he reaches for Aramis and starts picking out the glass from his hair. 

“You’ll cut your fingers,” Aramis protests. 

But Porthos presses his hand down against Aramis’ back, keeps him stretched out on his stomach, and picks the glass away with his other hand. He’ll wrap his head up later once he’s gotten out all the glass. The bleeding’s stopped hours ago, but it’s matted up in his hair. He’s careful not to let any of the slivers slice into his skin. He’s exceptionally careful – has always been exceptionally careful with Aramis.

Eventually the tension eases slightly from Aramis’ shoulders. He sighs out and sinks down against the bed. Porthos knows his eyes are likely closed, can feel the way his breathing evens out with the methodical way Porthos brushes through his hair. After a moment, he starts humming again – that same quiet, happy tune. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Porthos says after a few thoughtful moments of silence, save for that humming.

Aramis sighs out and rolls over so he’s lying on his back, looking up at Porthos with a fond look. He reaches his hand out, skims it over the bandages cutting across his chest to keep his shoulder in place. He studies the way his fingers fan out against Porthos’ shoulder, his smile secretive but kind – and does not comment for a long moment. 

“I am. I’m happy,” Aramis says, quiet. 

Porthos can’t quite place the reason why – they succeeded in protecting the king and queen, but at the cost of others dying, at the cost of all those headaches and lives lost. At the cost of the king still regarding them in ill-favor. But, Constance and d’Artagnan have found their way back together, at least. The King and Queen are safe. And Aramis is safe and alive. Porthos can’t begrudge the day, in the end, if the result is Aramis smiling up at him like this. 

“Yeah?” Porthos prompts, waiting for Aramis to clarify.

But he doesn’t, instead, he shakes his head and sits up, moves into Porthos’ space, and draws him into a hug. That’s easy enough, and Porthos sighs, curls his arm around him and holds him close. His injured shoulder throbs in protest and so he’s forced to keep it a one-armed hug – but holds him close all the same. Aramis’ chin rests on his uninjured shoulder and they stay like that for a long moment, just holding one another. 

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Aramis says, and his voice sounds thicker than before – happy, yes, but hedged with something else. “That everyone ended up safe.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We made it.” 

“I don’t know what I’d have done if…” Aramis trails off. “Well.” 

There’s a weight to the words that Porthos can’t quite place, but he rubs gently at Aramis’ back – checking, perhaps, for any sore spots but mostly just wanting to hold him. 

“I’m here,” Porthos reminds him. 

“Mm,” Aramis hums out, slumps further against Porthos – as much as he’s willing to let himself, given their injuries. 

When they draw apart, they stay close – looking at one another. For a sudden moment, Porthos’ can’t breathe. Aramis’ eyes are warm in the late afternoon light. He stays close, his eyes flickering over Porthos’ face – glances down for a moment and then back up to meet his eyes. His hands linger on Porthos’ shoulders. The air suddenly feels a little thicker – but Porthos can’t quite place why, can’t quite place what’s changed. 

He’s seen that look on Aramis’ face before, directed at plenty of other people. 

They stay like that. Aramis’ hand touches his bandages again, fingertips brushing lightly. 

“Me too, you know,” Porthos says, quiet, after a moment – unsure what to say, unsure if he should say anything at all. “I’m glad you’re safe, too.” 

Aramis gives him the smallest of nods. 

Porthos can’t stop looking at him. He isn’t sure what his own face reflects, only knows what the cost of this day has been – of seeing Aramis fall from the window, worrying for one moment that he might be dead before remembering to trust, remembers that relief seeing him again. Being here now. Looking at him like this. Aramis looking back at him. 

It isn’t the first time he’s thought of this, but there’s nothing like a near-death experience that makes the twisting of his heart feel all the more relevant. All the more impossible to ignore. They have been friends for many years – have lost each other nearly a dozen times over. 

Aramis’ hands stay on his shoulders. They don’t move back. Porthos finds that he isn’t moving back, either. 

“Porthos?” Aramis prompts, and there’s no mistaking the way his voice has dropped down low, quiet and contemplative. His eyes flicker away from Porthos before looking back up again. Porthos looks at him, steady. 

“Yeah?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis’ hands slide over his shoulders, impossibly gentle on his injured side. When he speaks, there is no earlier teasing as before. Quietly, he says, “… I never meant to frighten you. It’s—”

“It’s alright,” Porthos interrupts, quietly. He swallows down. “I knew you were alive. I knew.” 

Aramis’ lips quirk into a smile, slightly heartbroken. “I’m happy. Everyone I—” He quiets, breathes in, and leans in closer – before hesitating. “I’m grateful for it.” 

Porthos, head already tilted when Aramis started leaning in, only frowns for a moment. 

Aramis looks down, moves as if to pull away. 

Porthos puts his hand on his shoulder and leans in closer. Aramis’ eyes flicker a moment, over his face, and then he closes his eyes, tilts his head. 

Porthos kisses him – and it’s as easy, as simple, as that. He can feel Aramis’ breathless laugh against his lips and that is enough – uncertain but happy, delirious and frightened at once. Ghosting against his mouth. He swallows it down and kisses him again – and again. He feels Aramis shiver against him, hear the soft sound from the back of his throat – helpless and happy. Porthos is drunk on it, touches at him, and just melts against him. 

They kiss hard, Aramis’ arms coming up to wrap around his neck. He feels him sink into the kiss, feels his arms around him, feels and tastes the breathless laughter in his voice as he kisses him. It’s everything he’s wanted, everything he could ever want—

Aramis places too much pressure on his shoulder and Porthos flinches away with a hiss.

“Sorry—” Aramis begins, arm dropping away from the one shoulder, but Porthos cuts him off before he can keep speaking and kisses him again and again until Aramis relaxes in his arms and weaves his fingers into his hair instead. 

Aramis’ hands are gentle and tentative when they touch at Porthos’ hair – and maybe Porthos hadn’t thought about this, hadn’t let himself think about this, but it’s how he imagined it’d be. Aramis, smiling against him, hands and fingers against him. His heart thuds up, lodges in his chest – a delirious, certain feeling of _he’s safe, he’s here, we’re here – we’re here together._ It is enough. It is reassurance, it is laughter and light and simplicity. They are here. And they are safe. 

Aramis breaks the kiss after a moment, breathes out sharply and grins at him – his eyes bright. He cups Porthos’ cheeks, laughing. “Oh – I should have done that first.” 

“Why now?” Porthos asks, breathless, before he can swallow down on the idea.

Aramis studies his face, touches at his cheek, traces his fingertip over his scar. His smile dims for only half a second when he says, “Don’t ever let me say goodbye to you.”

This is not, in fact, the answer – but it is an answer all the same. 

Porthos debates his answer for one moment, tries not to get distracted by the feeling of Aramis’ fingertips dragging along his jaw. He says, after a pause, “If you promise the same.” 

Before Aramis can answer, Porthos leans in and kisses him, because there is nothing else he can do but this. Aramis sighs out and sinks against him, curls his arms around him. They’re here. They’re safe. They’re here together and safe. 

“Do you think you can—” Aramis starts, hands at the belt to Porthos’ trousers. He pauses there. Looks up at him. Bites at his lip. “We should really likely wait—”

Porthos reaches for him, grabs him, and drags him in – untying the front of his shirtsleeves, letting it slide down off one shoulder. Aramis makes a delighted little sound and kisses him back, starts working at Porthos’ belt. 

They navigate around each other this way – their hands fumbling, unsure how much the other will do, unsure how quickly to move – but they shed their clothes piece by piece. Aramis shifts closer, shimmies out of his trousers as Porthos tugs off his shirt for him one-handed. 

Aramis shifts his weight, and then gasps out in a hiss of pain. Porthos draws back, frowning, reaches his hands out to steady him. “Shit, your leg.”

Aramis laughs, breathless, and shakes his head – even if there is an edge of pain to his smile. “It’s nothing. Keep going.” 

“No,” Porthos insists, stubborn. He runs his hands down his arms, his touch gentle – more freeing in his ability to do so, feeling bold enough to just touch him for the sake of touching. Aramis shivers under the attention as the last of his clothes fall away. 

Porthos shifts back, knows he’s staring and doesn’t care. It is not the first time he’s seen Aramis naked like this. They have, after all, dealt with one another’s wounds, changed in close quarters, and the like. But this is different. He drags his eyes slowly over him – until Aramis lets out a whining little whimper. 

His hand comes up, rests on Porthos’ good shoulder. Porthos glances at him, finds Aramis blushing and grinning at him. “Like what you see?” 

Porthos grins at him, laughing, and makes a more blatant show of dragging his eyes over him. Aramis’ is already half-hard, and his cock gives a small twitch when Porthos’ hand brushes over his stomach. 

“Please,” Aramis whispers. 

Porthos glances at him, unsure what he’s asking for – and Aramis is looking at him somewhat deliberately, blushing, smiling at him helplessly. 

Porthos laughs. “Yeah – you look good.”

Aramis hums out, triumphant, and leans in to kiss him – his hands moving gently over Porthos to shed away the last of his clothes. They both flinch as they move – Aramis leaning forward too heavily, Porthos lifting his arm to touch him. 

“This is a terrible idea,” Porthos says, but also can’t stop kissing him. Aramis laughs, kisses him more, grips at him and presses closer. They both flinch, their bodies sore and tired and broken for the night – but Aramis can’t stop laughing and Porthos can’t stop laughing, either. It is a desperate kind of laughter – fueled on by being alive, still, despite it all. They’re alive. 

There’s a grin on Aramis’ lips that makes kissing difficult, but he tugs at Porthos’ hair, drags him in, kisses him again and again between helpless bubbles of laughter. 

He pulls Porthos down over him and Porthos tries to balance his weight on his good arm – which means he can’t touch Aramis properly. He rolls his hips forward experimentally, gasps out and swallows down Aramis’ pleased moan. He presses down more and Aramis flinches, shifting his injured leg away. 

“Careful,” Aramis murmurs, drags his teeth over Porthos’ bottom lip and suckles at it, kisses him, licks into his mouth. 

They move after this as if it is the last moment they might have together – clinging to each other as much as they’re able, moving together. Aramis kisses him, mouths at his throat and down his neck, suckles at his collarbone. Porthos rocks his hips forward a few times but has to shift, roll onto his side so he can touch Aramis. He drags his hand down over his chest, traces over his scars, fists around his cock and gives it an experimental tug that elicits a faint, gasping joy from Aramis’ lips against his neck. He starts sucking against the skin, the shadow of teeth there, and Porthos groans out, twists his hand around Aramis’ cock and starts stroking him. 

The ache in his shoulder is too intense where he’s leaning too heavily against it, and so the angle doesn’t work. He eases up, has to pause in stroking Aramis off. Aramis whines out when Porthos shifts back, tries to move after him – and makes a soft whining sound when he puts too much weight on his leg. He anchors himself to Porthos’ shoulder. 

“Maybe we should wait,” Porthos offers, tentatively. 

Aramis’ hand curls around Porthos’ cock, heavy in his hand, and strokes him rather mercilessly. Porthos groans out, rocks his hips up. 

And then Aramis lets go and shifts back. “Oh yes, we should _stop._ ” 

Porthos scoffs out a soft laugh. “Yeah, alright. You made your point.”

Aramis grins at him, leans in, and kisses him. “I have wanted this,” Aramis whispers against his mouth, “for so long.”

Porthos does not ask him what’s stopped him from acting on it before today – because he knows. He knows the way his blood must sing to him now, to be alive, for them to be victorious. He knows how Aramis is – shying away from love, from affection, from kindness like this. He touches at Aramis’ hip, squeezes. 

He’ll show him. He’ll spend as much time as he can showing him just how precious to him he is. He is his friend, his brother – he is far more than that, it seems. 

They spend the next few minutes navigating the space as best they can – kissing each other, touching each other – and trying desperately not to fall off the bed or aggravate their injuries more. 

“This is not – how I’d have hoped our first time together would have gone,” Aramis admits, breathless, punctuating each word with a soft thrust of his hips, rutting into the hollow of Porthos’ hip. He shivers, shuddering – partly from pain when he jostles his leg too much, but not enough to pull away from Porthos. Porthos settles his hand on the small of Aramis’ back and cranes his neck up in order to kiss Aramis sloppily in return. 

“It’s good,” he mumbles against his mouth. “You’re really damn pretty.”

Aramis laughs, an undignified snorting sound, and strokes his hand down Porthos’ chest, shifts his hips so that their cocks press together. “I’ll make it up to you,” he tells Porthos, whispers it against the curve of his ear as he presses down against him. “I’ll make sure you’re begging for more by the time I’m done. Next time.”

Porthos can only laugh, breathlessly, smitten – at the promise of a next time. A next time. The two of them, together. He nods his head, tries to kiss him more, lets Aramis drag his lips over his – the touch of him against his. 

They rut together desperately and it is the combination of nerves, of finally being together, and joy, of finally winning, of being alive, of being _here_ , that it does not take long at all for the both of them to spend against each other’s stomachs. Porthos comes first with a loud groan into Aramis’ kiss, and Aramis strokes against him until Porthos is coming down. He ruts against Porthos a few more times and comes, too, with a soft moan before he tentatively leans down against Porthos, cheek cushioned to his chest. 

They lie like that for a long moment. Aramis makes a soft, pleased sound, and nuzzles to him. Porthos touches at his hair – finds one soft shard of glass but otherwise meets no resistance. He rubs his thumb at the back of Aramis’ ear, careful not to disturb or prod any injuries. 

“You’re the beautiful one,” Aramis murmurs, sleepily, and kisses the scar over Porthos’ heart. “I’ve… wanted you for so long.”

“You could have said something,” Porthos mumbles. “Then we could have slept together without being injured.”

Aramis chuffs out a small laugh that Porthos feels ghosting over his feverish skin. He kneads at Aramis’ neck and smiles when Aramis lets out a soft, pleased sound and goes boneless against him. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says, and mouths up to kiss at Porthos’ neck. He is smiling, but there is another unspoken weight to his words as he stays close to Porthos. “It was a mistake on my part.” 

Porthos closes his eyes, breathes out, and wraps his arm around Aramis. Keeps him close. Doesn’t let go. 

If he has anything to say about it, he’ll never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), as always.


End file.
